


Miles to Go

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, batfamily, gen - Freeform, if you squint? - Freeform, it's cute don't be alarmed, past TimSteph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woods are lovely, dark and deep,<br/>But I have promises to keep,<br/>And miles to go before I sleep,<br/>And miles to go before I sleep.<br/>-<br/>Tim keeps falling asleep. The family learns to deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles to Go

“Tim!” Dick called out. He craned his neck to listen for a response. Nothing. His brow furrowed. Where was that kid?

The man strode into the Manor kitchen, stopping when he saw Damian wolfing down breakfast. “Have you seen Tim?”

Damian rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to reply. Dick’s blue eyes narrowed: the boy’s manners had taken a nosedive since his last birthday ushered him into the teenagerhood.

“You gonna help, squirt, or what?” he asked, stealing a pancake.

“Grayson!”

Dick laughed, shoving the pancake into his mouth. “Payment for covering for you last night,” he told him, chewing obnoxiously.

Damian swallowed. “I have no idea as to what are you are referring,” he announced haughtily.

Dick’s eyes twinkled. “Does ‘cuddly raccoon’ ring a bell?”

Damian chucked a spoon at his older brother’s head, from which Dick promptly ducked. “Shut up!”

The spoon clanged against the wall and fell near the trash can. Dick laughed, scooping up the silverware. He stopped short.

“Damian?”

“Unf.”

“Tim is sleeping in the trash can?”

Damian paused shoveling pancakes in his mouth. “I didn’t notice,” he replied.

Dick rolled his eyes and hauled the massive sleeping toddler out of the trash.

“Really, Grayson, that’s where he belongs. It’s his home now,” Damian admonished.

Dick grunted, throwing Tim over his shoulder. Little bugger had grown this past year. “Are you cohabiting?” he responded, grasping a cloth napkin and thwacking the back of the kid’s head.

Damian scoffed but went back to eating his third set of pancakes.

~

“'Road to hell paved in unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault,’” Jason quoted Hemingway grandiosely as he entered the apartment. “Replacement?”

The air conditioner started up, but no endearing nerd appeared from the rooms beyond.

Huh.

The young man meandered over to the fridge. If the baby bird was going to be an inhospitable jerk (never mind the fact that Jason was uninvited), he may as well eat all the ice cream. Yet the true knife in the heart was struck when Jason opened the freezer door and spotted Alfred’s lasagna.

“Alfred gave you lasagna?” he called out incredulously. “I didn’t get lasagna. How rude.” No reply, not even a sniff of protest. “Hey!” he shouted, boots clanging against the tile as he stomped out of the kitchen. “Favorite child! Where are you?”

He paused. Listened. A whir of electricity whispered near the balcony.

Hm. Better inspect.

Moments later, he wished he hadn’t.

Jason closed his eyes.

“Are you kidding me.”

The kid was in an urn. An urn.

“Why do you do this,” he mumbled, yanking the young man out of the huge pottery, “you’re not even homeless, you’ve never been homeless, you’ve never had to do this, why do you choose to do this, I can’t right now.”

“Iz warm,” Tim slurred drowsily.

“Yeah, so is a newspaper blanket but you don’t see me hunkering down with it, you ridiculous chowderhead.”

Tim snored slightly.

~

“What do you need?” Barbara questioned, glancing away from the screen to the young man in the doorway.

“Reports, visual evidence from Willow Man, and one steaming dish of self-esteem,” Tim recited, blinking drearily.

The woman hummed, gesturing Tim to a seat opposite. The young man flopped onto the swivel chair, rubbed his eyes, and sat back. “Hey, George!” Tim greeted the plant to his right enthusiastically.

Babs looked over her glasses. “George?” she questioned, adjusting a device.

“The plant,” Tim replied easily.

“You named the plant?”

“The plant’s name has always been George.”

“…It’s a good name.”

He shot her a pleased grin. “Want me to check out the roof signal?” he offered.

“Sure, but watch out for the hawk. It built a nest.”

Tim shot her a thumbs up and made his way up the stairs.

Twenty minutes ticked by before Barbara grew curious. She flipped on the roof monitor.

There laid Timothy Drake, feared vigilante of the night, sleeping

Barbara bit her lip to stave off a smile and sighed. She clicked on the comm call connection, which was opened within the first ring.

“Yes?” Bruce answered brusquely, rifling through some papers.

“Come pick up your child,” she told him over the the screen.

The man grunted and looked up. “Damian?” he asked in confusion. The mentioned child ran down the stairs in the background.

Barbara rolled her eyes. This man thought himself a genius. “No, the other child.”

“Dick is a grown man.”

“I’m talking about Tim.”

“Oh. May I ask why?”

“He’s asleep on my roof.”

“How did–”

“He came with your instructions, said hi to George, and went up there to take a look at the roof signal.”

Bruce squinted. “Who is George?” he demanded in an undertone.

“My houseplant.”

“When did you name it George?”

Barbara glared at him. “It’s always been named George.” She glanced at the screen to her left. “And better make your pick up snappy because he’s slipping.”

The man grunted, “On my way.”

She nodded as the screen went black and brought a mug of coffee to her lips. She smirked.

George. Ha.

~

Cassandra dragged her hand against the cool walls of the Manor. Alfred was speaking beside her, something about finding Tim. She could probably find him quickly enough, but she and Alfred were on a mission to find a certain book from the library: _Le Petit Prince_.

The young woman bounced a little in her step. Alfred was going to teach her French. She hadn’t learned any other languages, at least not in a “studying” way. She picked them up from her travels, but the vocal sounds always took so long to process. Then the word process was a whole other “bag of cats,” as Jason often said. The letters switched and went backwards, trying to dance the salsa. But they shouldn’t dance the salsa, because words need to stay where they’re placed so that they can be read. But then some other languages did have flipped letters, because the alphabet was different.

Cass scowled. Why did different alphabets have to exist?

Alfred opened the door and let her inside, like the perfect gentlemen he was. Cass knew that she wasn’t a “lady”–at least, not in a traditional manner of speaking. Originally she hadn’t thought much of the behavior, especially when doubting as to whether she was really part of the Wayne family. But Alfred liked it when she had “good manners” so Cass would make him proud.

Plus, more cookies.

Her dark eyes roved over the shelves and immediately sought out an exhausted form in a fetal position tucked on the highest shelf.

She rolled her eyes. Her little brother had no self preservation. No self preservation at all.

“Alfred,” she called out, twirling her toe in the plush rug, “I found him.”

~

“You do know that I have a paper due, right?” Stephanie complained as the sashayed through the manner entrance.

“Jason’s going to proof read it,” Dick promised her, shutting the door behind her.

The young woman perched her sunglasses atop her head, bangs shuffling forward. “All right, so what’s the problem?”

The brothers in front of her shifted.

She raised an eyebrow. Best to break the weakest link. With that in mind, she focused her eerie gaze onto the current Robin.

He crossed his arms, but she had got to him. Steph repressed a smirk. He squirmed. Three, two, one–

“Drake’s missing,” Damian confessed bluntly.

Ohohoho, was he? “And you need me to…” she paused, stuffing her car keys into her pocket, “…Find him?”

“That is the idea,” Dick nodded, clear blue eyes hiding his concern over having to go to all this trouble after five hours of searching.

Stephanie nodded, slipping through the boy crowd and bounding through the foyer. She jumped on the first step and shouted, “My favorite film is The Phantom Menace!”

Nothing.

She quirked a brow, listening. “Wow, he’s out. Normally that gets a rise out of him.”

The three of them rolled their eyes at her attempt. Wow, the bat behavior definitely rubs off.

“We tried that,” Dick explained tiredly. “We looked everywhere.”

“In trash cans,” Damian supplied.

“And urns,” Jason added.

“And the library shelves, and the roof, and his bedroom,” Dick finished, shoulders sagging.

“Hmmmm,” Stephanie pondered, twirling her hair. “Okay, Mission Sleep-and-Seek activated. First things first: we need junk food.”

Jason shot her a look. “Alfred lives here.”

She shot a look back. “Yeah, and is the food stashed in your jacket pocket for decoration?” She snapped her fingers. “Chop chop.”

Jason grumbled but fished out two turkey drumstick packages and handed them over.

Stephanie tore open the bags and placed the contents in the oldest brother’s hands. “You hold onto these,” she instructed, “because Damian will try to forcibly choke-feed him.”

“That was one time, Brown.”

“And yet its memory lives forever,” she retorted dryly before flipping on her heel and bouncing up to the attic.

“I don’t think–” Dick began.

“This isn’t–” Jason interrupted.

“Really, Brown, you–”

Steph held up a finger. “Before you try to do anything silly like rationalize Tim’s behavior, remember that, while his work is very logical, Tim operates under puppy-mode.” She flung her arms toward the ceiling and stretched. “Give me a boost,” she ordered, jumping.

“Why would he be up there?” Jason demanded, but complied and hoisted the five-foot-five woman up in the air.

“He likes to feel tall,” she replied airily, knocking back a panel. Wood chips dropped.

“Watch out.”

“Too late,” came the pained response.

Stephanie gripped the edge and heaved herself up, feet wiggling. Her shoe slipped.

“Watch out.”

“Ow! Brown!”

“Whoops. Oh, yuck. It’s filthy up here.” A clot of dirt fell. “Watch out.”

Dick coughed. “Stephanie,” he commented peevishly, “I’m beginning to think you’re doing this on purpose.”

Now why would the batboys think that? She stuck her head out and met their gaze solemnly. “If I die,” she began.

“Oh for crying out loud,” Jason mumbled, rubbing the dust out of his eyes.

She continued and announced dramatically, “Play Uptown Funk at my funeral.” The woman disappeared into the darkness amid the shouting from the three brothers below.

Stephanie crouched and swept her hands across the floorboards, testing any weak spots. It’d be just like Tim to find a precarious nest and she’d fall through. She scooted forward, eyes roving over the black area. She loved Tim, she really did. They were Tim and Stephanie, the human equivalent of a tin can telephone. But sometimes, when she met his eyes, all that reflected back to her was…blankness. Somehow Tim had decided he didn’t want to be a tin can telephone with her anymore and snipped the string. Her throat felt dry and rough. She wasn’t going to think about it right now. Steph rolled over a set of golf clubs and crawled further into a small corner. She bumped into something warm.

Okay, either she had found a fresh corpse or it was Boyfriend Wonder.

The blonde leaned forward. “Star Trek sucks,” her lips whispered near his ear.

“Whaaaaa,” Tim mumbled, mouth like a cotton ball. “Steph?” he asked blearily, blinking awake.

She waved. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here? Star Trek does not suck.”

“Of course not. Who is Bones again?” she distracted him, drawing him out.

Tim began rambling in his gruff, sleepy way. She practically dragged him out of the darkness and, when they came to the opening, squished him out. She cast a pointed look at the two food suppliers, and they quickly fed the young man while he ranted between bites.

Stephanie smiled, hoisting herself out of the hole and dropping to the floor.

Never change, Tim, she thought to herself as he rapidly explained the positives of Star Trek.

She tucked her hand into his and pulled him along down the stairs.

Never change.

~

Bruce stepped into the cave and knew.

He rolled his eyes and made his way to the computer console. Crouching down, he caught Tim’s huddled and sleeping form by his ankle.

“ _Cinco minutos más, por favor_ ,” Tim mumbled, mouth smashed against Bruce’s chest.

Bruce stilled.

Tim was conked out. He only began speaking Spanish when he A) was exhausted or B) was feeling particularly overwhelmed and needed an anchor. It was a remnant from his Puerto Rican nanny, who had been the one steady presence during his toddler days.

Bruce sat back on his haunches and thought back to the little boy on the periphery of his memories. Tim Drake had been a quiet yet curious child. The man remembered a certain situation where Tim (around four or so) had wandered away from his parents at a gala. They hadn’t noticed until their desire to leave. Jack had been worried, but Janet found the boy within two minutes, talking to a small party of the catering staff and asking questions. Bruce had been distracted (mostly by Dick’s latest stunt involving Mrs. Pattenson’s purse turtle) but took note of the toddler. He conducted himself in such an adult manner, and was smart as a whip.

Bruce had observed from a way’s away, fiddling with a champagne glass while the young mother announced, “We’re going home, Timmy.”

“ _Bien, mamá_ ,” Tim had chirped, setting the serving tray down on a nearby table.

Janet reached out an arm and Tim took it,

“ _Dile gracias al personal_ ,” she told him.

The boy turned. “ _¡_ _Muchas gracias_!”

“ _De nada_ ,” the two servers replied, smiling and waving.

The mother and son strode out of the butler’s closet, her hand upon his small head. She stroked it absentmindedly, asking, “ _Te gusto la fiesta?_ ”

Tim nodded enthusiastically. “ _¡Sí! ¡Fue divertido!_ ”

“Speak English,” Jack instructed the boy, coming up behind them.

“ _¡Y a ellos les gusta tomar fotos tambien!_ ”

“ _¿_ _Oh sí_?”

“ _Inglés_ ,” Jack snapped irritably.

Tim didn’t hear. “ _¡Sí! ¿Crees que a ellos les guste Batman tambien?_ ”

“ _A todos les gusta Batman_.”

“ _A papá no le gusta Batman._ ”

“ _Eso es porque es un gruñon_.”

“Janet!”

“What? It’s true.”

The husband squawked in protest, outlining arguments against her statement while the four year old poked holes in the arguments with stone-cold logic.

Bruce nodded as they went past, and caught Janet’s deep blue eyes. She raised a brow and gestured behind him, where a turtle on a soda rocket resided.

Bruce shook his head.

His children had lost so much. And who did they get in return? A man with a mission so dark and lethal it threatened to kill them every night.

He sighed.

Tim has his mother’s eyes.

The young man–more boy than man, really–shuffled in an attempt to return to the warmth. Bruce caught him by the tip of his shirt.

“ _Por favooooor_ ,” Tim begged drowsily, deadweight.

The man paid no heed to the pleading, and wrapped his arms around the teen, one behind the back and one behind the knees. He stood and drew him close, making his way upstairs. Tim muttered cutoff phrases from his dreams, with a halfway conscious “please” in several languages throughout.

Bruce almost smiled. The kid was still light as a feather, despite his recent growth spurt.

He walked quickly up to his room, sheets of paper spread across the floor. Tim had been working day and night on his most recent case. It was no wonder he had sequestered himself underneath the computer console. The boy couldn’t get any peace. The proper formula, the breakthrough, was at the tip of his grasp and he just couldn’t reach it–

Bruce set the boy down on the bed, watching him curl up like some sort of baby animal. Tim’s hand was still clinging to his shirt. Bruce repressed a snort. A sloth, he decided. His son was a sloth.

He caught the hand and gently set it down beside the young man, who was shifting and sniffing noisily. He settled in a comfortable position finally, and smiled sleepily.

“ _Buenas noches_ ,” Tim whispered.

Bruce placed his hand atop Tim’s head. “ _Buenas noches_ ,” he whispered back, stroking it absentmindedly.

And yet suddenly the deep blue eyes opened, panic flowing in the irises. Bruce’s heart sank a little. “Bruce?” Tim questioned, voice deep from sleep. “What time is it?”

“Time to sleep.”

“But–I–the case–”

“Sleep, Tim,” he ordered firmly.

Tim opened his mouth, but was quelled by the stern look leveled his way. “I'll sleep five minutes, then back to work,” he shot back stubbornly.

Wasn’t this boy begging for more sleep less than a quarter of an hour ago? Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“Ten,” Tim amended.

Bruce’s stare didn’t waver.

“Eleven?” Tim’s voice was very, very small.

Bruce patted the boy’s head and stepped away. “Go to sleep, Tim.”

“Twelve and that’s my final offer.”

“Good night, Tim.”

“…Fifteen.”

“ _Timothy_.”

“All right, I’ll go to sleep.”

Bruce couldn’t help his smile. He closed the door behind him. Stubborn child. His stubborn, wonderful child.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I in no way believe that Spanish speaking people are relegated to staff jobs and nannies. They are absolutely not, and this was in no way a representation or opinion of a group of people. I just wanted to add some culture to toddler Timmy’s life (as all young rich children are wont to have) and decided on Spanish (one, for my familiarity with it (I almost chose Ukrainian and then I was like “don’t even try, fool”) and two, because of the rich family-like quality that is so intrinsic to Spanish-speaking culture. This is an element to Tim’s character, and I desired a reflection of that).
> 
> New Spanish dialogue and translation by silvernightmare18 on tumblr, a miracle worker!!
> 
> Five more minutes, please.
> 
> All right, mom.
> 
> Say thank you to the staff.
> 
> Thank you very much!
> 
> Did you enjoy the party?
> 
> Yes, it was fun. And they like photography too!
> 
> Oh, yeah?
> 
> Yeah! Do you think they like batman?
> 
> Everyone likes batman.
> 
> Dad doesn’t like batman.
> 
> That’s because he’s grumpy.


End file.
